2021-09-20 - The Carousel's Curse

Judging by the briefing she had just received from her cousin, the ever-fashionable Hyacinth Addington, the carousel commemorating the life of some relative or another has been a source of egregious concern as of late.

She isn't one to delegate family business to someone else, and certainly she's never satisfied unless she views something with her own eyes. By Odile Devereux's estimation, the thing hasn't changed in the slightest. She remembers its colors, its animals and how they bob up and down the poles whenever it was in operation. She remembers her younger years trying to 'race' Harrison around and around its circumference, nevermind that the seats were always on fixed points and there was never any clear winner and loser - but back then, victories didn't matter. It continues to surprise her that in spite of her family and upbringing, there are still aspects of it that remain utterly pleasant in its innocence.

Conner would find her standing by the contraption - just a few feet away from children sampling its charms, a wide-brimmed hat situated so low on her head that it obscures the top half of her face, leaving nothing visible but the fine point of a pale chin, and an expressive mouth lacquered in scarlet. A sleek ivory-colored pantsuit with a matching bolero jacket dons her this afternoon, fashion beats decidedly upper crust and European, with the points of dangerous black stiletto heels planted on the ground and a handbag that is just as expensive as the rest of her tucked at the crook of an elbow. A manicured hand is curled around a portable cup from the local coffeehouse, though there is no scent of pumpkin spice anywhere, thank god, containing nothing but pure black coffee.

"Timmy, dude, quit kicking the hippo, man," Conner murmurs as he draws up beside her. Is he talking to her? It's not clear that he is, because he's frowning at the Carousel. Not that he goes so far as to address it with Timmy in his hearing. He'd happened to be walking by, a bag from the hardware store in his hand. Six years ago the Broadleaf Apartments had their own maintenance guy, but then that guy quit, Conner decided he couldn't quite afford one, and he had to start learning how to fix all of his resident's problems himself...an issue that is still ongoing to the point where the town fortune teller had seen fit to tell him to change out one of the garbage disposals if he didn't want an epic battle with mold.

"He doesn't like that."

He's a rumpled man. His hair is a bit rumpled and messy. His denim shirt bears wrinkles, the grey-t-shirt beneath a bit of the same. The jeans are just a little schlumpy. The old hiking boots he wears are practical, but a little faded. None of it makes him look exactly unkempt though. The clothes are clean and decent enough, sturdy, well-constructed. He's just built for comfort, apparently, and not for style. A deep contrast to Odile's own expensive tastes.

He seems to narrow in on the woman with said tastes a moment later, blinking in owlish fashion as if just having taken note of her. He bobs his head in an easygoing nod, and seems...not at all embarrassed to have been griping about the honor of a wooden hippo on a Carousel.

She senses Conner draw up before she even sees him, unable to help herself - there have been many years when the Art had been dormant within her, though its presence would manifest now and then, especially when she's situated in a boardroom embroiled in a complicated corporate transaction, or an arbitration related to the same. But ever since arriving - and it always does whenever she sets foot back in these perimeters - she has been inundated by its flood, and it took a day or two to remember how to cope and establish her mental filters. These days, especially, they are necessary.

The wide-brimmed hat tilts on one side to regard him, and within the shadows it casts on her features, he'd be able to glimpse a pair of eyes the color of lightning trapped within glass, flaring like pale blue pinpoints underneath its confines. There's no smile of greeting, nothing to assuage the strange of his embarrassment - at least, not yet. Her gaze drops to the bag he has in his grip, the way he's dressed, but it's evident at least that she doesn't find anything particularly offensive about it; had it been Paris, he would stick out like a sore thumb. In the Pacific Northwest? It is she who is the sartorial outlier.

"Good afternoon." Definitely not from around here, with her polished diction and her accent, oh-so-faintly colored by the presence of the City of Lights. But a thought enters her head and Odile pivots on her heels to regard him more fully, curiosity on what he could see of her alabaster features. "Do you maintain the carousel?"

"Not...exactly," Conner says. "That's the park's job. But I look out for the animals, sometimes."

He clears his throat, then dips his head towards them. "They're cool guys. They help kids when kids go to them and ask for help. So I try to look out for them because I figure that pays it forward a little. They help the kids, I help them. They were pretty forgiving about some mistakes I made trying to help them, too. They're great guys. I know a lot of folks are creeped out by the carousel, and maybe the structure itself and the stuff beneath it's got an issue or two...but I don't figure that's their fault."

He gives another slow blink, like a giant cat of some form, and then realizes he's just been rambling on about the carousel without so much as offering a name.

He clears his throat and offers his hand. "Conner Hawthorne."

"Ah, oui. I remember that they sometimes talk."

She sounds like a foreigner, but judging by an accent colored with exasperation, the woman with the hat has either been read in or has experienced enough of Gray Harbor's weirdness to talk about it in a way that is almost normal - a fact that she constantly feels conflicted over, because nothing about this town approaches any semblance of the usual. "Regardless, those who are creeped out about it are for a very good reason," she tells him mildly. "But no, it's certainly not the denizen's fault - that, alone, lies within the creator, and the events that surround its tragic history."

A slender hand extends towards him, manicure as glossy and scarlet as the curve of her visible mouth when she curls graceful fingers around his for a surprisingly firm shake - there is a deceptive strength underneath the porcelain complexion, tempered by the fluid grace the woman seems to embody with every gesture. One can take the girl out of ballet, but not ballet out of the girl, it seems. "Odile Addington Devereux. Well met, then, Mr. Hawthorne." A tilt of her head and a faint smile. "Any relation to Nathaniel Hawthorne?" Author of the infamous Scarlet Letter.

Conner's handshake is as gentle and as mild as his voice is, without crossing the line into being limp or weak. He lets go after an appropriate moment, in his own way as proper as any socialite, without any of the polish that usually comes along with such a person. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Devereux. And no, no relation."

A smile flickers, at the ask though. There's also a flicker of curiosity about the history of the carousel. It's a sure bet he'll circle back around to ask her questions about that, but for now it feels almost rude to do so, and she presents some puzzles of her own. He tilts his head at her thoughtfully and says, "You're French? But no newcomer to this town. And an Addington. Not by marriage, or Devereaux would come before Addington. Or did you just live abroad long enough to pick up the accent? One of those people that just absorbs the talk of wherever they are?"

Then he frowns thoughtfully, and adds: "I don't mean to pry, if I'm being too personal."

His smile is returned by his own, followed by a probing lift of elegant brows from underneath the brim of her hat. Perhaps he wouldn't have escaped any scathing criticism on that end, had he presumed to keep interrogating her without apologizing for it. But as the man seems to be a gentle soul - even in the method with which he asks questions - to Odile, it comes across as congenial instead.

"I ask difficult questions for a living, monsieur," she says, her polished diction softening enough to be mildly reassuring. "I can hardly begrudge anyone for doing the same, especially of a new acquaintance." She nods her hatted head towards the carousel. "By marriage," she corrects. "But not mine. My mother is Cecily Addington, a second cousin of Margaret's." The current matriarch of the Addington family. "She married my father and after his tenure in Washington DC, after which they moved to Paris where I was born. I grew up there, but I spent my summers here, from the time I was a toddler and onwards - so some of the town's mysteries are not lost on me."

She tilts her head at him slightly. "And yourself? Have you lived here all your life?"

"Ah," Conner says, pleased that the mystery now makes sense. And he doesn't shy away when the spotlight is turned on him.

"Yes ma'am," he says. It's not a deference ma'am. It's just a courteous one. "The Hawthornes have been here a long time, though not as long as the Addingtons, I think. Built the Broadleaf. Passed it on from generation to generation. I've honestly never been any farther than Seattle, and only then for a semester. I wouldn't mind it, seeing some other places. Someday, maybe."

There's no wistfulness to that, just a matter-of-fact musing. A flicker of a frown does pass over his features when he talks about passing from generation to generation. Yet he leaves whatever troubles him, all of a sudden, out of the conversation.

"What is your living? Difficult questions implies...hmmm. Reporter?"

Broadleaf? "The apartment complex," Odile identifies easily - enough of a verification that despite her foreign upbringing, her roots in this town run deep. The Addingtons who live here aren't distant relations with whom she has little connection, but people who she's interacted with on a regular basis since she was a child, and whose affairs she manages. "I thought the name was familiar. I suppose in a place that is constantly in flux, it's nice to have something that remains constant in spite all the changes."

There's a pointed look around, at the vestiges of the damage the storm had caused.

His guess earns him a faint smirk. "Not a bad deduction," she tells him. "Lawyer. After the storm, the family called me in to ensure that business operates as usual - helping the town rebuild itself will undoubtedly put a significant dent in the family coffers, I'm here to make sure the consequences of that aren't too severe. And yourself? Managing Broadleaf now?" A glance down at his bag and tools. "And repair man on the side?"

"Just managing the Broadleaf, with repair man part of the job," Conner says sheepishly. "We had a repair guy, but he retired this year and...I haven't gotten around to hiring another one. But I kind of found I like doing it myself. It gets me out and talking to the residents. Lets me get to know them a little, find out what they really need to be comfortable and safe there. I mean. I may not have the same answer when I'm under someone's sink with a misbehaving garbage disposal, mind. There's a learning curve."

He glances around at the storm damage and nods gravely at it. "That makes sense. It was quite the mess. Lots of people with lots of aftermath to deal with. Consequences of all the lost time, too, might keep you busy awhile. Not sure how busy, but it's certainly made wrinkles. I don't envy you dealing with some of that fallout. Lot of people discovered they'd made questionable financial choices during the skip."

"If you are a landlord, it is important to get to know your tenants," Odile agrees with a nod, tilting her head back so she can regard him more clearly underneath the wide brim of her hat. "Not just for the sake of the small community you are looking after, but also to manage the risk. This town is unpredictable, and without the necessary vigilance, things you don't want in your life might bleed through your walls." Literally and figuratively; this is Gray Harbor, she doesn't rule anything out.

There's a thin smile at his acknowledgement regarding the state of the town. "Hopefully not my family," she remarks. "Because if that did reach them, I'll have to deal with it." She nods to the carousel. "I don't recall the animals helping children when I was spending summers here, but it makes sense considering its history. Perhaps to make up for the sins that surrounded it." Sins involving children, implied by her response about it.

She's brought it back around to the carousel, and Conner gazes at it. He tilts his head at her and asks, "If you don't mind telling me plain, Ms. Odile, I would like to hear that history." Implications and all. He has an intense gaze, for all that his eyes are doe-brown and as gentle as the rest of him. It's all attention. He pays attention in ways the mostly distraction-prone majority have forgotten the way of. "Not just because of my obvious interest. Just might also be relevant to some recent events that have surrounded it, things I'm trying to understand a little better."

"As gentle as you seem, I see you're not all that shy about knowing the truth, however ugly it could be," Odile murmurs, turning her lightning-blue eyes back to the carousel. "Very well."

She needs something before she launches into this, so she rifles through her purse to produce a silver cigarette case; slim and monogrammed with her initials in swirling letters on the corner. Removing a stick, she offers one towards Conner - if he doesn't take one, she promptly lights up, fingers sparking with electrical current to turn its end into a cherry-red ember. Porcelain cheeks hollow out before she exhales away from him and the children.

"The carousel was put in 1911," she begins. "This was around two years after the Riverfront Park carousel was built in Spokane, around the time that our idyllic and strange little town was doing its best to cultivate a more family friendly atmosphere. At the time, Gray Harbor couldn't sign on Charles Loof for the project, but city officials did contract a man named Matthew Whittaker, one of his competitors. He was later arrested six months after the carousel was finished for improprieties against children. He took them out in the woods, and after a trial and considerable jail time, he committed suicide in his cell on a Sunday in 1912."

After another deep draught of her menthol cigarette, she continues, smoke wisping from between parted scarlet lips. "The original operator of the carousel was a Jacob Baxter. He was still its operator during the 1960s when the park instituted Rock n' Roll Tuesdays. Plenty of tracks from the King, especially - he was a favorite." She means Elvis, of course. "The day he died in August 16, 1977, Jacob's daughter, Jill, went missing riding the carousel. Not many could claim to know what happened to her, just in one moment, she was gone." She tilts her head to regard Conner sidelong. "Some say that the carousel turns a different way every Tuesday in the other side. I do not think that's a coincidence, with the history I just imparted on you."

He does not, in fact, take one, though he murmurs a soft no-thank you. He's certainly old enough to still have participated in that particular habit at a time when doing so was the norm, if very briefly. In restaurants, even. Yet he doesn't even offer the ex-smoker's longing gaze before softly declining. He just does so and leaves it at that. His own particular nervous habit is to slide the bag up to rest from his wrist so he can push his hands into his pockets, even as he listens.

"Jesus," he murmurs, softly, his brow furrowing down. He shoots an uneasy glance at the animals, as if wondering whether he ought to be reading everything they've done and said in a much different light. And yet they might have some answers about Jill.

More to a different point: "Thank you for telling me. It at least explains why all the Baxter...ghost bits...are under the thing now, on the other side. I guess they all migrated from the sawmill? And there's a whole issue with this little half-Baxter, half-Addington ghost girl, Muriel, wants to put them all back together again and send them on. And there's this old man ghost who keeps stopping her. She's caused some mischief. But of course, there's consequences either way, so certainly every time I've been pulled into some event or another surrounding this problem nobody wants to make any decisions. I don't even feel like it's my right, personally, to speak up on it. But unless I'm misremembering, Miss Hyacinth has been there every time--she's delightful, isn't she?--and she hasn't seemed to want to rush to any decisions either. Might be worth asking her about that, come to think of it."

He at least offers information for information.

"We didn't help," Odile murmurs in a contemplative fashion as her eyes fall on the carousel again. "With the Baxter bits, I mean."

After a long pause, the woman exhales another breath from her cigarette before turning to Conner with a slight pivot of her right heel. "I don't think I need to tell you that your interest may be a dangerous thing, but in a town like ours, I think knowing is infinitely preferable to not - at least you know what to stay away from when the time comes. As for my cousin..." She means Hyacinth, with a faint smile. "Hyacinth was never the impulsive sort, she's inherited much of the Addingtons' penchant for calculation. So no, she won't rush into anything that could potentially be regrettable."

Easing away, she takes a step back onto the path leading out of the park. "Regardless, I have to get back to my family. I'm certain we'll meet again, Mr. Hawthorne. You will be careful given your interest, oui?" With a wave of the hand carrying the cigarette, she heads out of the park.